


Songs That Could Only Catch The Ear Of The Desperate

by BabylonByCandlelight



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Anxiety, Artistic liberties taken with historical and religious events, Biblical Demons, Both professional and personal, Canon Compliant, Communication Issues, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Crowley and Aziraphale do some sleuthing, Drama, For the most part, Gabriel makes a brief appearance, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Holy Water, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Mainly Because Crowley Hates Himself, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Pre-Relationship, Repressed Feelings, Requited Unrequited Love, Some Upsetting Imagery, Unreliable Narrator, Well mostly anyway, it doesn't end well, nothing too graphic, victorian london
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-09-23 19:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20345476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabylonByCandlelight/pseuds/BabylonByCandlelight
Summary: It had, quite honestly, been more of a burden to call London home than it would have been to simply continue his nomadic lifestyle. It had kept him from stagnation, from sitting still, from theconstant twitching in his fingers that demanded something happen now, now, now…But then Aziraphale bought that blasted bookshop, and settled quite happily into a routine, and that was that.Fear gripped Crowley’s heart as he neared the bookshop, adrenaline urging him forward faster and faster, have to get there,have to get to him, and –Oh.“ANGEL!”-or-Centuries before the Apocalypse, the demon Crowley is surrounded by fire of a different sort, and becomes increasingly desperate to keep his angel from the flames - even if it means burning up himself.





	1. a ticking clock in an empty home

**Author's Note:**

> Quick warning for non-graphic deaths throughout the work, mostly involving young children. There will never be any in-depth descriptions, but be aware that they are a plot point, and therefore mentioned sporadically.
> 
> I am taking a few historical liberties regarding dates and certain items.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
_A beating heart and a microphone_   
_A ticking clock in an empty home_   
_Still tells of these times so long ago_   
_Even though I've come so far _   
_I know I've got so far to go _   
_And any day now I'll explode_
> 
> _Like the angel you are_  
_You laugh creating a lightness in my chest_  
_Your eyes they penetrate me (Your answer's always maybe)_  
_That's when I got up and left._  
  
\- "Like the Angel," Rise Against

_London, circa 1861 A.D._

The fog was always at its worst in November.

Thick, jaundiced smoke poured out from factories, arms outstretched towards the fumes offered up by the Thames, enveloping them in a passionate, melding embrace. On a good day, people coughed delicately into handkerchiefs and aprons. They stayed inside where the air was less obstructive and made charming observations about pea soup, and whether or not one could see their own hand in front of their nose. They waited patiently for spring, when the sun would return and steal through the damp and gloom on the back of the warm breeze to grant brief reprieves from the Industrial Revolution’s disagreeable side effects.

On the East End, there were no good days.

Crowded residences were built back-to-back stretched as far as the eye could see, and their tenants spilled out into the streets, dirty, exhausted, and hopeless. Backyards were nearly indiscernible to the naked eye through the choking, ever-present smog, though every so often, someone would trip over a chicken, or a pig, or plow torso-first into a cow. At very least, their leavings were impossible to avoid, and most gave up trying. It was just another form of the excrement that overpowered their lives: they slept in filth, and consumed filthy meals served by filthy hands. Raw sewage saturated the streets, and above them, the remnants of pure, breathable oxygen surrendered in abject defeat, fusing with the putrescent haze of river offerings and Progress to form a semi-permeable gas that smelled of liquid feces and settled in the lungs with a comparably unpleasant feeling.

For the demon Crowley and his corporate rival Aziraphale[1], good days were the rule, not the exception. The time they spent together in the newly-purchased[2] bookstore was _nice_, although Crowley would rather relive the 14th century on a loop than ever admit the sentiment out loud. It was easy, filled with afternoon drinks that became drinks long into the night, unimportant conversations devolving into what, between any mere humans, would be called inside jokes and fond, nonsensical ramblings. For his part, Aziraphale justified it to himself as, “keeping track of that wily serpent’s plots, and gaining insight into the Infernal Campaigns of Hell so as to better thwart their insidious plans.”

Crowley mostly called it, “Tuesday”.

On this particular Tuesday[3], the pair found themselves at the British Museum. This in and of itself was not unusual; Aziraphale was always eager to view any new exhibits displayed in the sprawling institution, and Crowley was always eager to view Aziraphale viewing things that made him smile, _really_ smile, even if he didn’t understand it. This, of course, was not to suggest that happiness, or interest, or any other type of emotion was necessarily foreign or inexplicable to him, although he did so delight in pretending otherwise;[4] rather, he simply could not fathom why Aziraphale would want to purposefully spend time gazing at objects that he had seen, personally, before they were considered artifacts and antiques. What was the point in looking backwards when all of eternity lay ahead? There was no mystery to these relics, not for them anyway.

It was all so… _sentimental_.

Still, as a whole, it had proven rather difficult to drag Aziraphale out of his bookstore now that he finally had it established and running exactly the way he wanted,[5] and there was only so much literature that Crowley could abide before his eyes started to cross and his fingers began to twitch for want of something to do. The museum offered a reprieve, something that catered to Aziraphale’s refined tastes and love of earthly things, even if that love didn’t extend to respecting hours of operation. _Anyway, breaking and entering is more fun,_ Crowley reasoned as the previously locked doors effortlessly opened under his ministrations, _even if it’s too easy, and just for more bloody books._

The look on Aziraphale’s face as they walked into the King’s Library in the East Wing wiped any and all objections, real or otherwise, from Crowley’s mind. The Library had been handed over earlier in the century, but it still was Definitely Not Available to the public, which meant exactly nothing to either one of them. After all, they weren't the _public_, and besides, locked doors were a polite request at best, and a mild speed bump at most. It took a few hours to convince the angel after Crowley offered up the idea, but there was no real protest in his words – he made the Proper Arguments and Gasping Noises and looked Suitably Shocked at the proposal, then neatly justified the excursion to himself as only Aziraphale could, and off they went. For his part, Crowley nurtured a smug sense of superiority that he had tempted a servant of the Almighty to forbidden knowledge, and studiously ignored any other fluttering sensations that might have dared try to garner attention. It was just business.

What kind of illicit knowledge one might gather from Shakespeare’s First Folio, or the Mainz Psalter, was beyond his comprehension, but also, he reasoned, above his pay grade. It was the Temptation itself that counted, not the impetus behind it. Or whatever. Although…

“Angel.” His voice was low, but amused, and he shook his head slightly as he continued to speak, “Are you trying to hide the Vedas texts under your coat? That’s not very holy of you now, is it?”

“Well!” Aziraphale sounded embarrassed, not at his actions, but at being caught out in the middle of them. “There’s no use in them just sitting here, with no one able to read or appreciate them! They are the oldest layer of Sanskrit literature, and the oldest incarnation of the Hindu scriptures and… well… It would be sacrilegious to just leave them here, abandoned and alone!”

“Ooh, _sacrilegious_?” The demon sounded dryly amused, though a fondness crept into his tone that belied his affection in a way that his words never could quite convey by themselves. “You’re just doing your heavenly duty by nicking a pagan text, is that it?”

“The spiritual devotion in that piece is an inspiring part of history, regardless of its origin. Beauty for beauty’s sake is not a frivolity. It would be _disrespectful_ to let them go to waste, Crowley.”

_Disrespectful_, Crowley mouthed soundlessly in playful mockery, rolling his eyes in his usual dramatic fashion. He did not press his point further though, and acknowledged defeat with an overly exaggerated bow and a mischievous smirk. “Well, far be it from me to disrespect such an important artifact,” he conceded, opening the door for his companion. “Can I _tempt_ you to a nightcap? I have a bottle of that champagne from the St Hilaire Abbey back at my flat.”

“Your _what_?”

Crowley paused at the sound of Aziraphale’s shocked inquiry, hand lingering at the door. “My flat,” he repeated evenly, though there was a strained quality to the words.

“My dear boy, since when do you have a flat?” The angel’s voice sounded innocently curious, which always threw up a red flag for Crowley. _Innocent_ was Aziraphale’s default setting, and as such, he rarely if ever sounded noticeably so. If it was obvious, then it was deliberate, and usually used to mask other, less innocuous intentions.

Until he knew what those intentions were, he’d have to proceed with caution.

“I acquired it oh, what, a good few decades ago.” _Right after you bought the book shop_, he thought blandly, grateful as hell for the dark sunglasses that hid his eyes. While their colour and overall appearance didn’t give him the same concerns and sense of profound disgust when he was with Aziraphale that lingered with the world at large, the emotions that could never be fully concealed in them were a constant source of anxiety to Crowley. As it was, he was sure that his corporation’s cheeks were flushed, and his usual resentment for the inner workings of the human body coursed through him. Bloody _tattletale_, the sympathetic nervous system.

“I had no idea you were staying locally! Why, I can’t remember the last time you stayed in the same place for more than ten years at a time. Rome,[6] perhaps? Whatever made you decide to settle down and call London home?”

“That’s – it’s not – _home_?” Crowley briefly sputtered, the word falling from his lips with the same amount of sneering that other such four letter words were given. He stepped away from the door, releasing his grip and letting it close once more. “It’s not _home_. It’s a matter of, of _convenience_, Aziraphale, a base of _operations_.”

“But why?” Aziraphale persisted.

_Like one of those yappy dogs with a bone. Whatchamacallit. Terrier,_ Crowley thought, a bit uncharitably. He should have known better. The angel always took everything the wrong way, regardless of subject matter. He saw motives where there were none, and worse, assigned _intentions_ to them without even a second’s pause to consider if he was even correct, or whether he should be prying at all. Even when Aziraphale was questioning, he wasn’t really _asking_ – he charged full speed ahead, determined to find out what he wanted to know. One either gave up resistance as a bad job and told the Principality what he wanted to know, or… Well, there had to be another option, even if Crowley had never discovered it[7].

“The world is getting smaller,” he began, carefully weighing his words. “Everything is connected now, in one way or another. A sodding sparrow drops in London, and halfway across the continent in Germany, they start designing defenses because it’s a threat, or a message, or some-bloody-thing. Don’t even have to really leave my doorstep to foment evil these days, so what’s the point? Might as well relax.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, and while his tone was mild, there was an air of finality to it. He had asked, Crowley had answered, and it was enough of the truth to be acceptable. The matter was now closed; the demon opened the door again, and this time, Aziraphale stepped through.

“Nightcap, then?” Crowley asked again as they made their way through the rest of the museum and out the front exit. Aziraphale paused for a moment to re-lock the door, though it was clear he was doing little more than stalling.

“Not tonight, I don’t think,” he eventually responded, refusing to meet Crowley’s gaze. “I’ll need to reorganize my shelves, after all, to make room for the, ah,_ new edition_.”

There was another pause.

“Of course. Another time, then.” It was not what Crowley wanted to say. He wanted to roll his eyes, to call out the lie, to demand to know just how difficult it could be to fit one pilfered text in with the hundreds of other books scattered about the shop in what may have been an organized fashion to Aziraphale, but was just a blesse – an unhol – a bleeding _mess_ to everyone else. Crowley had seen nightgowns less flimsy than that excuse, and it left him feeling just as stupid as Aziraphale must have thought him, to feed him a line like that.

Yet still he swallowed it. Bitterly, resentfully, although it was poison and it choked him, he swallowed it as he did every other pretext thrown his way, because at least it was something. At least he was being fed.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but suddenly it was all too much for Crowley, and he cut him off rather abruptly. “Well, must be off. Discord to sow, souls to corrupt, all that. You know how it is.” The words were forced, caught up in the tightness of his chest that, had he actually been human, would have strong-armed all the oxygen from his lungs and left him desperate, gasping for breath. Even now, demonic and immortal as he was, Crowley couldn’t trust his voice, his knees, his damned _heart _[8]to do their jobs and keep him steady.

“Oh. Oh! Yes, yes, of course,” the angel agreed, flustered. “I completely understand. I suppose I should rather be getting on home, as well. Your ah, your flat, is it…?”

“That way,” he replied succinctly, pointing in the exact opposite direction of both Aziraphale’s bookshop and the neighborhood where his flat did, in fact, reside. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter where the damned flat was, or which way he went, or where he ended up, as long as it was somewhere _away from here_. He saw the other’s mouth open one more time, and his resolve shattered. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, sparing only one more shred of emotion to throw up his hand in a brief farewell.

* * *

Back at his flat, Crowley could not get the image of Aziraphale’s expression out of his mind. He flung himself rather angrily into the throne-like seat that had the rare distinction of being the sole chair in the entire residence – indeed, apart from the enormous, custom-made bed, a few bookshelves that contained some reference books about astronomy, medicine, and horticulture but mainly held various phials and jars of things best left unidentified to the casual viewer, and a rather handsome desk that sat in front of the aforementioned throne, filled with various writing utensils and accessories, all relatively unused, the apartment was relatively empty.

Even in the familiar, comforting solitude of his dwelling, the demon was on edge and unsettled. No matter how he sat, or where, he could not relieve the coiled tension that strung itself through every fiber of his corporation’s muscles, drawing him tightly inward against himself, like a flexed bow at the ready. There was no rest to be found, _heh, no rest for the wicked_, Crowley mused, his inner monologue rolling its eyes even as it processed the thought. He unfolded from the chair, resuming his agitated pacing around the flat, dark glasses discarded haphazardly on an empty counter and topaz eyes glaring at every shadow.

_“I completely understand. I suppose I should rather be getting on home, as well…”_

He didn’t though, that was the whole damnable point! Aziraphale _didn’t_ understand, he couldn’t possibly, not when even Crowley had such difficulty grasping the concept. If he had any inkling, even the faintest clue of how much the demon – well, how terribly essential he was to Crowley, then….

No. If he had any idea, then everything would be ruined. If one thing had been made clear over their long, yet somehow woefully short-lived history thus far, it was that Aziraphale, Angel of the Lord and Guardian of the Eastern Gate, had patience and companionship for Crowley as far as Crowley had use for him. When Aziraphale needed amusement, Crowley was amusing – when he was doubtful, or insecure, or lost, Crowley reassured. That was the real Arrangement, forged from grief and isolation and the desire to be understood, when the concept of Eternity was newly formed and not yet a heavy, dragging burden sitting solidly on their shoulders. Whatever Aziraphale needed, Crowley would be.

_Oh, you’re an angel. I don’t think you _can _do the wrong thing._

“_Home,_” Crowley sneered at the nearest jasmine plant, which had been noticeably avoiding eye contact with the demon, and immediately began to shake. “Oh, yes, must run along home, as if… as though…”

_As though Crowley’s home hadn’t been standing next to him the entire time._

The explanation he had given Aziraphale was not a lie, at its core. The world _was_ smaller now, the ripples of the discord he fomented reached nearly to the edge of the pond, so to speak. The Industrial Revolution had been a roaring success, both professionally and in his own personal life. Things were easier now, and there were more of them. Complacency was effortless now, and material comfort readily available.

None of that had ever mattered to him, of course. While he appreciated the creature comforts that he had acquired and installed in his living space, it was hardly a collection and barely qualified as meeting basic needs, from a mortal perspective. It had, quite honestly, been more of a burden to _call London home_ than it would have been to simply continue his nomadic lifestyle. It had kept him from stagnation, from sitting still, from the _constant twitching in his fingers that demanded something happen now, now, now…_

But then Aziraphale bought that blasted bookshop, and settled quite happily into a routine, and that was that. The same day Crowley had learned about the angel’s intention to have a “home base”, he had found[9] the flat he now paced restlessly in, and the rest simply fell into place. If London was going to be Aziraphale’s home, then it would be his, too, twitching fingers be damned. He would adjust, as he always did. After all, if one could become accustomed to the sensation of hellfire convulsing through their veins, metaphorically speaking, then most anything could be tolerated. If an angel could tolerate the company of a demon… 

He blew out a shaky breath, suddenly bereft of the energy that the rage and embarrassment of rejection brought him, and he sagged against the kitchen counter. He’d let his emotions get the better of him, and while it was not the first time he had succumbed to the ugly feeling that Aziraphale’s tolerance elicited in him, it never became easier to face himself afterwards. He knew this dance by now, after all. He knew what the cost of Aziraphale’s fri – compan – _tolerance_ was, and although it burned inside him at times, there was never a question of its worth. _For profit in one thing, payment in some other thing – _as a contractor of Hell, Crowley knew it better than nearly anyone. If knowing the ugly side of tolerance was the price of also knowing the smile in those blue eyes, or the way the angel’s alabaster curls could resemble a halo in the proper lighting, well… He was the Serpent of Eden, after all. He and the pain that knowledge brought went way back, right to the Beginning, and he earned his free will in the Fall. He chose, damn it all, _he chose_, and he would not resent it now.

“I should apologise,” he muttered to the empty room. Now that the final vestiges of turbulent emotion had drained away, Crowley could think clearly. At the very least, he should probably nip back to the Museum and replace the now-missing _Vedas_ with a copy, so that there wasn’t an uproar the next time someone happened into the Library and noticed it missing. _He just never thinks of the details,_ he grumbled to himself as he skulked down a suspiciously empty street, vowing to take the longer way around to avoid passing by the book shop, and knowing as he did so that it was a futile effort. He was drawn to the angel like a moth was to a flame, and – 

No, hang on. That was an _actual flame_. 

Fear gripped Crowley’s heart as he neared the bookshop, adrenaline urging him forward faster and faster, have to get there, have to get to him, and –

Oh.

“ANGEL!”

Crowley could see the figures clearly now and was flat-out running, bellowing for Aziraphale as he reached the burning pile that lay but maybe eight feet from the bookshop’s door. He knelt beside them, desperately trying to miracle away the fire that engulfed the bodies of two small children, but the flames refused to dissipate and, indeed, seemed to climb higher than ever, perhaps out of sheer spite.

“Crowley? Whatever is the mat – _oh!” _Aziraphale’s voice cut off abruptly as he reached the bookshop’s entry and caught sight of the scene happening on his doorstep. He recovered his wits quite quickly, and in the blink of an eye, had both disappeared then almost immediately reappeared, this time holding a bucket of water. While it did not completely douse the blaze on its own, it dampened the fire’s spirits just enough to rend it susceptible to Crowley’s frantic efforts and, in the end, succumbed to its betters.

It was silent now, save for the faint sound of panting gasps from they who never actually needed to breathe in the first place. Crowley’s face was tight, while Aziraphale was the picture of grief-stricken horror. There was no hurried attempt to heal the young boys that still smoked before them – it was obvious that any efforts would have been in vain. No one spoke, though as Crowley rose from his kneeling position on the street, Aziraphale stepped forward to grasp his arm in support. Neither was sure whether this comforting gesture was meant for the angel or the demon, but both appreciated the contact in the moment.

After a moment, Aziraphale drew in a shuddering breath, released his grip from Crowley’s arm, and rubbed his hand over his mouth in muted distress. “Crowley...” His voice was small, and he sounded just as lost as the demon felt. “Crowley, why couldn’t you put out the fire? What is going on?”

“I don’t know, angel,” he answered, barely audible despite the cold, dark silence of the nighttime. “I was just – I was going to... I wanted to make sure no one found out about the _Vedas_, and I saw the fire. I thought...” This time he allowed the words to trail off, not wanting to add his own private horrors to the very real tragedy that lay before them. His eyes rested on the children in front of them once more. The oldest could not have been more than eight, the youngest maybe five. A surge of anger went through him at the sight, and he felt his hands twitching again, this time into the shapes of fists.

“I don’t know,” he said again, this time with anger strengthening his voice, “but I am bloody well _going to find out._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1They could never agree on a static term for their partnership. “Associate” was apparently too familiar, and “friend” was not even on the table. This week, they were corporate rivals. Last week, they had been co-workers. To everyone else, they were merely a headache.[return to text]
> 
> 2 Newly, by their standards, of course. Life expectancies in Victorian London were sprints at best, and for the poorer families, even thirty years were a pipe dream.[return to text]
> 
> 3Which was actually a Friday, for those keeping track at home. [return to text]
> 
> 4Thus, negating his own assertion that demons were incapable of actual enjoyment derived from methods other than carrying out their infernal work. [return to text]
> 
> 5That is to say, almost always closed and devoid of any customers.[return to text]
> 
> 6It was Golgotha, actually. Crowley had a small, obscure dwelling outside of the city. After the Crucifixion, she had disappeared without a word to Aziraphale, and hadn’t turned up again until Rome, centuries later. He moved constantly in those days, and as such, kept few possessions and had no need or desire for a _home_. [return to text]
> 
> 7Not that Crowley ever looked for it, and even if he had, he never would’ve taken it. He could never deny Aziraphale anything, even (or especially) the parts of himself that were still proverbially wounded and bleeding all over the place.[return to text]
> 
> 8Meant literally and figuratively, respectively. Regardless, both were problems that he dwelled upon on a regular basis.[return to text]
> 
> 9Which, in interest of full disclosure, had not actually existed in the building where it now sat. However, Crowley had never let a little thing like that stop him before, and he wasn’t about to start, and thus, the penthouse had been born. Not that the landlord, or any of the other tenants, were aware of its existence, and that’s how he intended it to stay.[return to text]


	2. one night of the hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Rise, I'll rise, I'll rise_  
_Skinned her alive, ripped her apar_t  
_Scattered her ashes, buried her heart_  
_Rise up above it, high up above and see_  
_Pray to your god, open your heart_  
_Whatever you do, don't be afraid of the dark_  
_Cover your eyes, the devil inside._  
-"Night of the Hunter", 30 Seconds to Mars 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting the stage for things to really pick up in the chapters ahead. Enjoy!

Over a week later, Crowley had made exactly no progress on _bloody well finding out_ anything about the deaths of the two small boys. No one was willing to speak to him about a crime that they neither witnessed nor had any connection to, at least as far as they were concerned. The people who lived there were poor and desperate, and most struggled to simply make it through the day relatively unscathed. What once had been a thriving, affluent area filled with the nobility of the times had turned into crowded tenements filled to the brim with underfed, often times starving families, and surrounded by brothels, music halls, and theatres, while the aristocratic residents had fled in the years leading up to the terrible cholera outbreak a decade earlier.

Their treatment by the highborn population during the years of co-habitation had transformed the remaining community into an insulated, protective community that had banded together out of necessity, forming symbiotic relationships with those around them to give everyone their very best chance at survival. They were suspicious of outsiders - those whose daily lives were not a constant battle just to make it home by nightfall. Aziraphale’s bookshop may have been in Soho for over half a century, but he, personally, was not an integrated part of the largely illiterate community. They had no use for him or the books that scattered his shop, and they certainly had no inclination to give him, or his dark-spectacled associate with the sneering voice and flamboyant gestures, any information on their family and friends. They were not wealthy, or educated, and had very worldly possessions, but they _were_ loyal to their own. No one else would help them, after all – not a decade ago when they were all literally dying in and from their own filth, and not now, when they were as beaten down and hopeless as they ever had been. They were all they had, but at least they had each other. It was a sentiment Crowley understood, even as he despised it.[1]

“But we’re trying to _help_ them,” Aziraphale protested as they made their way back to the bookshop, his voice distressed. “It stands to reason that those poor children are from here, there’s no way that they could have made it far in that – _condition. _Shouldn’t they _want_ to know what happened, and why?”

“It’s not about that, angel,” Crowley answered absently, his attention cast about the streets around them, looking for... well, anything, really, that seemed out of the ordinary. “There’s so many of ‘em here, it’s impossible to know everybody and even if they did, no one wants to be the one talking to the law. Police don’t help the likes of them, they just storm in, rile everything up, drag away some poor soul that can’t defend themselves, and leave everyone worse off than they were before. They don’t want to be next.”

“Oh, really Crowley, it can’t possibly be _that_ bad! The police enforce the law, they’re here to help!”

Aziraphale’s objection drew a brief sigh from Crowley, accompanied by an eye roll. “You can’t possibly be that naïve. No one cares about them, least of all the _police_. Two kids dying in the slums means nothing to anyone, even the poor sods that live here. They have no power, no influence. They’re just factory workers, or dock rats – no, don’t look at me like that, that’s not what _I_ think, obviously, but that’s just how it is, and you know it. Easier to just keep quiet, keep their heads down, and go about their lives as best and long as they can, because Go – _Somebody_ knows that they don’t have much time anyway.”

The angel huffed, but declined to comment further as they reached the front door of his shop. The knob turned under his hand, and he stepped back to allow Crowley entrance first, shutting it behind them and ensuring it was firmly locked. Still quite upset but unwilling to show it, Aziraphale made a beeline for the back room, where he began to fuss with the kettle, the desire for displacement activity stronger than any actual craving for tea[2],

“None for me,” Crowley called before the question was even asked. He grinned as he heard a soft sound of surprise mixed with slight indignation drift through to the front area where he now paced. His eyes glared around at the shelves and tables of the shop that were damn near impossible to see under the piles and piles of books, tomes, digests, and – ah! There it was, the _Vedas_, sitting on a small, round, wooden table next to a –

Well, well. Wasn’t _that_ interesting?

“How long’s this _chaise lounge_ been here, then?” he asked, head tilted a bit to the side in scrutiny. He was sure it hadn’t been last week, when they’d set off to the British Museum together, and Aziraphale rarely spent much time in the front part of the shop unless he was organizing – he preferred to devote his attentions to his volumes privately, at his desk, where interruptions were less likely. There certainly weren’t _customers_ that came in with any regularity,[3] and even had there been, it was highly improbable that the angel would set out a piece of furniture that would _encourage_ someone to linger in the building, maybe grab a book and relax on the plush cushion… Settle for a while….

It _did_ look rather comfortable, now that Crowley thought about it, and although he strictly had no need to stretch out and let the burdens and heaviness of the last week slip off his shoulders, metaphorically speaking, he found he couldn’t resist the temptation to just exist without reason or justification in a place that was familiar and safe. He didn’t even try.

It was thus that Aziraphale found him when he walked out with a cup of tea only ten minutes later, sprawled out, head thrown back, eyes closed, and looking the very paragon of a creature at peace. The angel’s smile was far fonder than was perhaps proper, and for a moment he simply stood there, happy to take advantage of the unusual sight of the normally so tightly-wound demon for once allowing himself to be so at ease. It made his heart swell with an emotion he could not identify, and though he hated to disrupt what was such a rare luxury for his compatriot, he knew that Crowley would not thank him for seeing him in this way, uninhibited and almost vulnerable, no matter how pure his intentions.

“I’m so pleased you like it,” he commented gently, not wanting to harshly break the silence and startle the contented figure splayed on his couch. “I found it in a quaint little shop off York Street the other day, and I knew – well, rather, I thought of you when I saw it, since there’s simply nowhere for you to sit when we conduct business[4], and how, how _rude_ it was of me to not even take into consideration! You don’t mind dreadfully, do you?”

“Mmph. Stop talking, angel,” Crowley muttered as he lifted his head and sunglasses, revealing cheeks that were tinged ever-so slightly pink now, and rubbed at his eyes tiredly before dropping the spectacles back in place. “What now, then? We’ve been at this for over a week with nothing to show for it. No one saw anything, and anyone who did isn’t willing to talk.”

“I don’t think there’s anything left _to_ do, Crowley,” the angel reluctantly answered. “You said it yourself that the police will only make things worse, if they do anything at all, and I don’t see how either one of us can do much else if not even the families seem to care that their children are gone. Perhaps they’re just so overwhelmed with grief to truly comprehend – “

“Nergh,” Crowley cut him off with something akin to a frustrated snarl, his face reflecting the emotion. “It’s not _incomprehensible,_ it’s just _humanity_. They would be blind to the start of the bloody Apocalypse, if it meant that they could continue their normal lives for just a few days longer[5].”

Ever optimistic at the thought of someday being able to speak a complete sentence, Aziraphale once more opened his mouth to protest, managing a full, “Now my dear, you can’t possibly mean –” before being interrupted once more, this time not by his redheaded companion, but by the sounds of shrieking coming from the street. Both froze for a moment, but a second scream sent Crowley shooting up off the chaise and running for the door, Aziraphale close on his heels.

The scene that greeted them outside was not a pleasant one, not that they imagined it would be. At the center of the commotion was a rough looking woman, stringy dark hair falling in her blood-shot eyes and tear-stained face, which was noticeably swollen. Two bobbies[6] visibly restrained her as she kicked and screeched, trying to wrench out of their grips and launch herself at a short, overweight man standing next to another Metropolitan police officer, and a taller, well-dressed gentleman wearing the current fashion of the day, complete with a top hat and cane. He looked far too finely dressed to be in the middle of the filthy, crowded borough, though he appeared completely at ease and in control of the situation. Indeed, he seemed as though he would look collected and confident in any setting, whether it be the opera house or, like this very moment, standing in the middle of the slums, watching a poor wretch shout senselessly at what seemed to be her equally poor husband, whose expressions vacillated wildly between confusion, terror, and something else, something increasingly dark and nervous as the disturbance escalated.

“He _killed_ him!” the woman screamed again, managing to twist just enough to yank one arm free from bondage, lifting her other one to her mouth and sinking her teeth deeply into the skin of the other copper’s forearm. He let out a shout of his own and released her instinctively to prevent further damage, which she took as a grand opportunity to fling herself at her husband, knocking him quite unceremoniously to the ground and immediately wrapping her hands around his throat.

“Oh!” Aziraphale breathed, taking a step forward as if to intervene. In a flash, Crowley’s hand caught his bicep, squeezing it firmly, though not painfully, in warning.

“Better not,” the demon murmured lowly, not taking his eyes off the situation. Something wasn’t right, and it wasn’t the fact that a wife was throttling her spouse in full daylight, in front of three police officers, one of whom was dripping blood from the bite marks in his flesh at a rather alarming rate – while it wasn’t necessarily an _everyday_ occurrence, violence in London was not even remotely uncommon, and it certainly wasn’t enough to set the spine in Crowley’s corporation a-tingling in this manner.

“But Crowley, she’s – “

“No, look, see, they’ve set him right again. Now be quiet, angel, I’m trying to listen.”

The stylish gentleman stepped forward now as the officers managed to slip handcuffs on the hysterical woman, her husband still on the ground in a sitting position and massaging his throat in a daze. He surveyed the scene for a moment, an expression akin to mild enjoyment flickering over his face before being placed with a look of practiced, even casual, concern. “If I may,” he began, commanding the attention of everyone within a mile radius, it seemed, “I may be able to shed some light on the situation.”

His voice was smooth and cultured, with the faintest hints of an accent that neither Crowley nor Aziraphale could quite place, but that they felt deeply inside them. It was the authority that laced even those three words that twinged them at their core: Aziraphale recognized it as the same arrogance that laced every word that fell out of the Archangel Gabriel’s mouth. For his part, Crowley hadn’t experienced that level of easy self-assurance since before the Fall, when Lucifer’s voice enchanted his followers with promises of answers and change. It made his skin crawl.

It seemed, however, that the officers were less impressed, though their attention was decidedly divided between the new orator and the still-spitting captive being forcibly detained until the police cart arrived to transport her to a holding cell. “And who might you be?” demanded the injured officer, holding a (relatively) clean handkerchief to his wound.

A thin smile wound its way over the gentleman’s face at the bobby’s tone, but his own voice was measured and restrained as he answered. “My name is Harrison C. Olom – “

“What’s the ‘C’ stand for?” Crowley mumbled rhetorically under his breath, smirking as the angel next to him rolled his eyes.

“It’s just a ‘C’, as far as anyone here is concerned,” the man – Olom – answered, flicking his eyes over to the pair standing only a few feet away in front of the bookshop. Aziraphale elbowed Crowley in the side, obviously embarrassed to be caught rubbernecking a situation that did not involve him. Crowley, of course, had no such compunctions, and merely shrugged carelessly. “And you are…?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale flushed lightly at being so directly addressed, and his hands fluttered lightly for a second, fingers lacing together at his front. “I am Ezra Fell, owner of this establishment,” he gestured vaguely behind him, “and this is my, err…”

“Crowley.”

“Your Crowley?” Olom sounded amused.

“His _associate. _My _name_ is Crowley,” he corrected, decidedly _not_ amused.

“Do you have a first name, Mr. Crowley?” His voice was obvious in its mockery, conveying fully just how entertained by this exchange Olom was, even as a man who had just nearly been strangled was escorted down the street to the local doctor to be checked for any lasting injuries. The mirth in his eyes now bordered ‘inappropriate’, clashing with the obsidian colour of the iris that rendered it nigh indistinguishable from the pupil and contrasted sharply with the aristocrat's unusually tanned face[7].

“Just Crowley,” the demon ground out, the lines on his face drawing tighter as his temper flared. His fingers _itched_ with the desire to punch this smug bastard’s face and wipe the smile off of it at least momentarily; only the surrounding crowds, complete with policemen with more on the way, and the angel at his side, stayed his hand. He was rash, but not a fool, after all.

“Well, Mr. Crowley, Mr. Fell… _Officers_,” Olom continued, maintaining eye contact with Crowley for a good five seconds more before turning his attention back to the situation at hand. “As I was saying, I know this man and his family. Mr. Cartwright and his son Henry work for me in my shipping business, down at the docks. Regrettably, young Henry suffered a tragic accident this morning, and was fatally injured. Mr. Cartwright and I delivered the tragic news to the missus just now, who, understandably, went mad with grief upon seeing what was left of her son.”

“You _burned_ him, you lying bastard!” Mrs. Cartwright shrieked from where she was held, fifteen feet away. “Weren’t no accident, weren’t no _tragedy_, you sons of bitches killed my boy! Murderers! _MURDERERS!”_

Olom shifted in what would be an uncomfortable manner, except that he seemed physically capable of such awkwardness. “Yes,” he went on, this time at a much lower volume, “I’m afraid Mary quite blames us for the death of her son. She was against the boy coming to work for me at all, but Richard was insistent. I, of course, am wracked with guilt at what has happened,” he added, without an ounce of actual guilt in his voice. “The boy was only six years old, a terrible waste. Terrible.”

“Lying bastard!” Mary Cartwright would not be silenced, despite the best attempts of the people around her, thrashing once more in a desperate bid for freedom even as the police wagon clattered up. “My Henry never fell into no furnace! You killed him! _You killed my son!_ LET GO OF ME!”

As they struggled to load Mrs. Cartwright into the back of the transport, Mr. Olom sighed and ran a hand over his mouth in a display of exaggerated distress. “I wish there was more I could do,” he confided to the general audience as the streets began to clear of spectators, now that the whole ordeal seemed to be over. “Richard was always so… _loyal_ an employee. It’s a terrible shame.” There was a pause, and then he shrugged inelegantly. “Well, Mr. Fell, _Mr._ Crowley, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintances, despite the unpleasant circumstances. Perhaps we will meet again, during a happier occasion. I do so _love_ a good book.”

With a smile that was full of hidden meanings and even more hidden knives, Olom turned on his heel and strolled away from the bookshop towards a handsome black carriage with the words, “_H. C. Olom” _embossed on the side in curling gold script. A footman opened the door for him, and a few seconds later, the horses pulled away, turned a corner, and were out of sight.

For a moment, all was quiet.

“I don’t like that man,” Aziraphale commented, somewhat surprised at the vehemence in his words. Next to him, Crowley snorted in agreement, fingers still twitching at his side. “He seems so _familiar_, though I can’t quite place him. I know I’ve heard the name before.”

“He just bought one of the biggest shipping companies in London,” Crowley answered immediately. “There was a big to-do about it, especially since before that, he’d bought out the textile mill down by the Thames. Brought on a lot of honest work for a lot of people – what?”

“How do you know all of this?” Aziraphale sounded amazed, but with an ugly undertone of suspicion that, in all fairness, may have been warranted, but wounded Crowley nonetheless.

“I _listen_, angel, and I pay attention. My, ah, _work_ takes me all over this blasted city, from the nobs in Mayfair and Piccadilly to St. Giles, and Whitechapel, and _yes_, don’t glare at me, even Soho. I _do_ still have compliance reports to fill out, you know, I don’t just exaggerate[8] all of them.”

This was obviously news to Aziraphale, but he did not press the point. The confusion, distress, and frustration of not only the morning, but the entire last week and a half had quite caught up to him, and the thought of going back-and-forth even with his dear Crowley made the beginnings of a headache creep into his temples. He found himself longing for that cup of tea, which would of course be cold by now, he realised dismally, and a good, comforting book where everything made sense and no one shouted about murder right in front of him. It didn’t seem too much to ask.

As always, Crowley seemed to interpret the angel’s mood perfectly, and took pity on him. “Look,” he conceded, his voice now lowered and almost _gentle_, if a demon ever could be that, “look, it’s been a long couple of hours. Why don’t you go back to the bookshop, collect yourself, do whatever it is you do when you’re not thwarting dastardly wiles or asking questions with obvious answers, and I’ll pop around the docks, see what I can find out. We’ll meet up sometime next week, see what we have then.”

The angel’s smile was beatific, and Crowley resented the thrumming of his heart in response to it. “Are you quite sure? Oh, my dear, that sounds perfectly lovely. I’ve been simply _itching_ to start work on the _Vedas_ text, and with all the, well, the unpleasantness recently, I haven’t had a spare second!”

“Yeah, yeah, go on. I’ll get in contact with you when I have something,” the demon assured him, watching Aziraphale retreat back into his building with a sigh and shake of his head.

He still hadn’t replaced that bloody scroll at the British Museum. Might as well start there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1It reminded him far too much of Hell – crowded, putrescent, suffering without reason or hopes of a better ending. You couldn’t trust anyone around you, but you could trust being on your own even less, and any delicate alliances that could be cobbled together were often better than none, until of course, they weren’t. It was all one big game of Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop.[return to text]
> 
> 2In this way, Aziraphale was extremely British, though another, more likely, explanation was that centuries ago, an entire country had modeled itself after the habits of their resident angel, to the point where it became a national stereotype.[return to text]
> 
> 3Not if Aziraphale had any say in it, anyway.[return to text]
> 
> 4Crowley was rarely, if ever, truly at the bookshop for business. In days past, it had been the only way to get Aziraphale to agree to their meetings, and though now it was very unusual for the Arrangement to even be brought up between them, Crowley would rather hack off a limb than admit he was there simply because he wanted to be, and Aziraphale had a similar amount of interest in disrupting the status quo.[return to text]
> 
> 5Centuries later, Aziraphale would not appreciate just how accurate this turned out to be.[return to text]
> 
> 6Police officers were referred to as ‘bobbies’ after Robert Peel, who became Home Secretary in 1822, and immediately began reforming the law enforcement system, standardizing it into an official, paid force that was answerable to the public.[return to text]
> 
> 7To be fair, this was only unusual due to his status as a noble – only rough labourers in Britain tended to sport tanned skin in those days, and it trended more towards ‘ruddy and weather-beaten,’ rather than ‘holiday in Majorca’. [return to text]
> 
> 8See – outright lie on.[return to text]


	3. the calm before the cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
_Time will take our place._  
_We return it back to one_  
_The calm before the cold,_  
_The long and lonely road._  
_Look for the light that leads me home._  
-Failure, Breaking Benjamin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fans of the Discworld series will be able to play Spot the Reference this chapter.

The British Museum was, in hindsight, a stalling tactic, and a bad one at that. It had been all too easy to slip the counterfeit _Vedas_ into place in the King’s Library, despite the teeming crowds of the late afternoon. Humans, at their most simple, were predisposed to routine – following the rules handed down to them by any petty authority was so ingrained into their psyche that it was unfathomable that someone would break into a place that very clearly commanded one to Stay Out, so, by standards of Polite Society and Logic, it must not have happened.

People were just so_ complicated_. It was part of what made them so marvellous, really; they were the only species to have invented boredom, and spent so much of their lives trying to alleviate it, this self-imposed prison of the mind and yes, the body. They valued freedom and autonomy more than anything, yet surrendered themselves to a set of rules that were created by their fellow humans, and had no authority or power over them except that which they themselves assigned it. They fiercely loved this world that they lived in, valued their immediate universe so highly that they invented morals and laws to govern the ungovernable chaos that was humanity to allow them to exist on this tiny little planet for as long as possible. They knew there was too much life to live, too much knowledge to uncover, too much of _everything_ to experience, and just not time for satisfaction to be had. It would all be over too soon, with nothing to show for it.

_There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.[1]_

That had been the crux of it, all the way back even before Eden. There was just _so much to know_, and while angels had been created to serve God in all Her blasted Ineffability, humans had no such burden of existence imposed upon them. They were created from Her pure love, in Her image, to be her favoured children and reap the benefits that came from such status, including free will - the ability to choose. As long as they chose correctly.

Some of the Fallen had been openly jealous of the new creations, lifted so high above them in Her regard – these angels could not understand why these younger children, these lesser beings, were revered and coddled when they had not even a tenth of the power held by the Firstborn, and they seethed, they _resented_, they_ would not serve_.

Not all of those who would Fall felt this rage. Their damnation was not born from envy or bitterness, but from questioning; it would be this concern that sealed their fate, this unease within them that held an undercurrent of doubt. Doubt in the Ineffable Plan, in Her Divine Wisdom, and this doubt brought with it sorrow and even distrust. _Why?_ they asked, voices pleading and full of grief, _why must they be tested? Why must they be led to folly, to pain, to darkness? They who are so innocent, so full of purity and love, why must they be given this choice when they didn’t even know what it meant to choose?_

The answering Silence was unbearable. It was ugly, and it burned them inside long before the fires of Hell ever charred the gossamer plumes of angel wings and turned every last ounce of Her Divine Love to burning sulphur and the agony of abandonment. And suddenly, all the questions, all the distrust and doubt and fear and envy and resentment, it began to evolve. It coiled together tightly, binding those who Grieved and those who Raged in a covenant, a convocation under a single banner unfurled against the injustice of it all.

It began to look a lot like Rebellion.

And it had never really ended.

_Get up there and cause some trouble_, they’d told him, but it had turned out to be so much more than that. It may have been Temptation at its most basic form, but in his eyes, now citrine in colour and serpentine in nature, Crowley had only done what was necessary – there was no free will without the knowledge of consequences. Blind obedience was not a choice, it was arrogance, it was a _threat_, it was the look of pity and even disgust haunting otherwise ethereal blue eyes that could have held so much more, if only…

Well.

He may have never meant to fall, but even in those early, dark days of crawling through boiling lakes and dirty, cloying muck that scorched his scales and seared his soft underbelly, the pain of the knowledge of what he’d done, and what he’d lost, what he’d _chosen_, was still preferable, more _valuable_, than living out one more second of existence in a celestial prison that called itself a home. The Tree of Knowledge may have been a test, an excuse for punishment, in the eyes of the Divine, but to Crowley, it was the only gift he could give to humanity – they who were created by his Mother, in Her image, to be kept in a Holy Zoo and have it called love. It was the only protection he could offer to his little brothers and sisters, and by God, he would not regret it.

In his eyes, his younger siblings had repaid his gift tenfold. They did it even now, standing around him, sharing knowledge openly. Some were exchanging intelligent discourse, waxing philosophical on the wonders of the Ancient World and trading theories as to just how those magnificent pyramids were created, or whether this mummy was cursed. This knowledge was wonderful in and of itself if not almost exclusively incorrect, but it was information of a different sort that the demon was after, and he found it in the form of two older gentlewomen, drifting aimlessly from exhibit to exhibit, and gossiping shamelessly.

“Well, our Harriet was there, waiting for a carriage, when it all happened,” one was saying to her companion as Crowley sidled up to the pair, keeping enough distance as to be discreet, but able to hear every word clear as a bell.[2]

“And just what was Harriet doing down there, then?” demanded her friend, voice equal parts nosy and chiding.

The first woman gave her a filthy look, as only one Disapproving Matriarch can bestow upon a peer of equal or lesser rank, and her reply was absolutely frosty. “If you _must_ know, Edith, her young man was escorting her home from one of those Song and Supper Rooms where he’s apprenticed. They’re the height of fashion these days - surely even _you_ must be familiar with them?” Edith flushed, properly chastened, and merely nodded. “As I was _saying_, our Harriet was waiting with her George for their carriage when this horrible woman came shrieking out onto the street, chasing what she assumed was her husband, trying to _strangle_ him because he killed their son!”

“Surely not!” Edith sounded appropriately scandalised, though her proper ladylike shock was quite outweighed by her natural busybody nature as she pressed on, “What did Harriet say happened then?”

“Well, of course the police came, but then that frightful woman absolutely _mangled_ poor Thomas Griffith’s arm, you remember dear Tommy of course, and _then_, as her husband was being rushed away, who should step in but Mr. _Harrison Olom._”

Crowley stilled now, head cocked ever-so-slightly towards the ceaseless nattering. He had come to the Museum, of course, to keep Aziraphale’s sticky fingers out of the limelight of the British Royal Family’s gaze, but Olom was a society man, and these women were at least familiar with him, which could only work to his advantage, if they would just give him something to work with…

“Why, I thought he’d left for the Americas already!” Edith chattered, completely oblivious to the eavesdropper who stood mere feet from them. “What in the world was he doing there? Surely he has better company to keep than the likes of criminals and _vagrants_.”

“He’s the _factory owner_, Edith,” the nameless harridan condescended, “and he’s a gentleman! He felt responsible for what happened, and wanted to speak to the mother himself. And it’s a good thing he did, too! Had he not taken command of the situation, who knows what would have happened?”

_Oh, yes, he saved the day, didn’t he?_ Crowley thought, barely containing a snort. _Heaven forbid the populace be deprived of the chance to see him swanning about, speaking a lot of pretty words, and accomplishing exactly nothing._

“He saved that poor wretch’s life, that’s for certain,” Edith commented. “I do hope he’s properly thankful, there’s not many who would stick their necks out just for a _dock worker_.”

“Oh, you know the type, they’re a bad lot, all of ‘em. Harriet said as she was getting into her carriage, she saw him limping down the street to that dreadful pox doctor, making a huge to-do and attracting all sorts of attention…”

_Pox doctor_. That’s where the man had been taken.

“’Scuse me,” he interjected without even a trace of apology or embarrassment in his words, “I couldn’t help but overhear – “[3]

“Well, I never!”

“Yes, yes, of course, but you see, madam,” he tried again, this time putting the effort in to smooth his tones, giving his voice the auditory consistency of melting chocolate – rich, dark, and just the tiniest bit intimate – as he stepped into the women’s immediate personal space, letting a conspiratorial smile slide over his lips, “I happen to be a close friend of Mr. Olom, and I, too, heard of his heroics earlier this day. And although a man as _noble_ and _humble _as he would never _dream_ of receiving formal recognition for his selfless acts, I just know that the man he saved would never forgive himself if he did not at least show proper gratitude to his protector. Therefore, I would be _eternally_ in your debt if you could assist me in my endeavour to find this lowly dockworker and ensure that he understands the magnitude of the situation.”

Edith’s mouth was actually hanging open by the time Crowley finished his completely illogical speech, and he knew he had them hooked. It wasn’t _what_ was said, he had discovered millennia ago, but _how_ one said it that convinced people to do as they were told.

“Silvia – that is, _Mrs. Sheffield’s_ daughter said that he was taken to the pox doctor,” she supplied helpfully.

“That would be _Dr John Lawn_, if you could even call him a doctor,” Silvia – that is, _Mrs. Sheffield_, sniffed, obviously displeased at being upstaged by her friend in the exchange. “Horrible man, really, not that I’ve ever had the misfortune to be attended by him – “

“Thank you, ladies,” Crowley interrupted, earning himself another huff from the droning woman, “your help has been invaluable. I shall be sure to remember you to Mr Olom, and tell him of just how instrumental your assistance was in finding closure during this terrible, terrible ordeal.”

By the time the women had opened their mouth to issue a proper response, Crowley had already disappeared.

“Well!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheffield, placing her hand against her now-heaving bosom, “whoever do you suppose _that_ was?”

* * *

Aziraphale could have taken notes in obscurity from the practice of the ‘pox doctor’. It was an unassuming office wedged between a tenement hall and someone’s backyard, filled with cows and goats that milled around happily, never knowing the constraint of a properly-built fence. Absolutely nothing called attention to it, and the small placard that hung in the window that quietly announced “John Lawn, Doctor of Medicine” made the bookshop’s ‘Closed’ sign seem obtrusive and flashy. If one didn’t know the place was there, it would have been nearly impossible to find at all, which was rather the point in the first place.

Crowley almost missed it simply by virtue of blinking at the wrong moment.

As he opened the front door, which had previously been locked but answered the call to action under the demon’s determined hand, he heard a rough voice call out over the door bell’s tinkling, “We’re closed! Come back tomorrow!”

“I’m looking for Richard Cartwright,” Crowley began as though he hadn’t heard anything at all.

“Never heard of him!”

“I have a street full of witnesses that say otherwise, Dr Lawn,” he retorted, closing the door behind him and stepping fully into the room, past the small waiting area and through the back entryway as though he had received an engraved invitation to his intrusion.

John “Mossy” Lawn was in the throes of advanced middle age, though he was not unpleasant to look upon. His coal-tinted hair was streaked with silver, worn rather long around his weather-beaten face that seemed lined with all the cares of the world. Still, there was a suggestion of compassion in otherwise impassive, keen hazel eyes that seemed to see too much, and yet nothing, all at once.

“A street full of witnesses may say what they like, it doesn’t hold an ounce of sway once you cross that threshold. Now I suggest you get to getting, before you’ve lost your chance.” His voice was calm, with an undercurrent of danger that brought to mind a panther lying in wait, muscles coiled instinctively, just waiting to be made use of. It was a stance Crowley recognized in himself, and for a moment, the two simply stared at each other, one through eyes of khaki-coloured steel, one from behind dark eyeglasses that hid eyes much less human, though no less unbending.

In the end, it was Crowley who blinked first.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he tried to placate, hands held in front of his chest in a universal sign of surrender. “I’m just looking for answers.”

“Not sure what sort of answers you’re looking to find, but I have none of them here,” came the unyielding retort, his voice final and forbidding.

“You may not, but _he_ does,” Crowley pointed at the figure hidden, rather poorly, behind the folding screen in the corner of the room.

“What _he_ has is between him and his God, and not anyone else,” Mossy began, but Crowley had run out of patience.

“Look, I was there when the coppers hauled off his wife! I heard what she said, about his boy, about Olom! He was accused of _murder_, that shifts the matter away from him and his, his, _Whoever_ and into the affairs of this earthly realm,” he pontificated, his long arms gesticulating emphatically. “Two more boys were burned last Friday on the door step of my friend’s[4] bookshop, and there are seemingly no answers to be had there, either! Now perhaps you’re in the habit of turning a blind eye to the brutal deaths of innocent lads, but I bloody well am _not_, and I will ask my questions, and by Hell itself, I will be told what I need to know!”

His words reverberated around the small room, though to his chagrin, John Lawn did not seem even remotely fazed. He made as if to speak again, but finally, the man hiding behind the wooden barrier emerged, drawing attention away from the rapidly escalating conflict as he spoke.

“You’re Mr. Fell’s friend?”

“Well, I say friend, more like – how do you know, ah, _Ezra_?”

Cartwright fell quiet for a moment. He was a small man, overweight, with leather for skin and watery brown eyes that sank deeply within his meaty face. The hair on top of his head had suggestions of red, more ginger than Crowley’s own claret colour, but it was thinning and more ashen grey than anything now, and at the moment, was standing quite on end. His threadbare clothes were wrinkled and dirty, and his breath smelled, quite strongly, of gin. In short, Richard Cartwright was the picture of misery, and a rotten mess to boot. And this man claimed he knew Aziraphale.

“You ain’t gonna b’lieve me,” the man finally slurred, quite clearly in his cups. “No one ever b’lieves me ‘bout nothin’.”

“_Try me,_” Crowley ground out, in a tone of voice that quite suggested the man already was.

“Me mum used to work fer Mrs. Palm down the road. Lived there for a bit when I was a wee lit’le bugger, used to run ‘round the back garden while she was busy. Miss Palm used t’ read t’ me sometimes.” Cartwright started, biting back a rancid hiccup. “Firs’ time I ever seen him was when ‘e came in to – “ he let out a deep snigger, that turned into a mess of drunken giggling. Crowley closed his eyes briefly; he wasn’t quite sure where this was going, but he had an idea.

“When he came in to _what, _man?” He demanded, ready to just get it over with.

Cartwright was still snickering, and a glance at Mossy Lawn revealed that even his normally expressionless face was working overtime to hide a smile, and not quite accomplishing it as his thin lips curled upward ever-so-slightly at the corners, taciturn eyes amused.

“Well, he’d ‘eard she was a seamstress, ‘adn’t he? Came to get a suit tailored!”

Crowley wiped his mouth with his hand tiredly as Cartwright burst into a fresh fit of giggles, fighting the urge to just throttle the man and be done with it.

He was familiar with Mrs Palm, of course – one couldn’t deal in the business of temptation and not be aware of Rosemary Palm of Treacle Mine Road. The Seamstress was usually spoken of with an embarrassed or exaggerated clearing of the throat following her name, more often than not coupled with a meaningful glance. For most people, it was common knowledge that Mrs. Palm and her seamstresses were actually _ladies of negotiable affection_. Clearly, Aziraphale had missed the memo.

“_Of course_ he did,” Crowley muttered, completely fed up at this point. He hadn’t had a decent rest since last Tuesday[5], he had reached his limit for dealing with uncooperative mortals when he was _only trying to help_, and now he was at war with himself, fluctuating wildly between reigning in his desire to break Cartwright’s ruddy nose, and bursting into helpless, crazed laughter at the mental image of Aziraphale, Angel of the Almighty and the most proper being he had ever encountered in his long existence, walking into a _bloody brothel and asking for a suit_.

For the first time in millennia, Crowley just wanted to go home.

“Mr Fell used to come by Rosie’s place quite often, back in the day,” Dr Lawn interjected, taking pity on the nigh-apoplectic demon and continuing the narrative himself, though this statement in and of itself did not help in calming Crowley. “Usually when one of the ladies was in some sort of trouble – difficult birth, or... well. Difficult customer. He saved a lot of lives back then.”

“Yah, was back before Doc here came along,” Cartwright put in, clapping Mossy on the back.

“Yes, well, I will say that in the last few decades, no one’s seen much him Mr Fell out and about,” Lawn conceded. “I’ve never met the man personally, but of course, his reputation precedes him. I was rather under the impression that the current Mr Fell was the original’s son, but that seems not to be the case.”

“Nah, s’the same person,” the drunk agreed, nodding his head vivaciously. “Y’don’t forget a bloke like that. Don’t understand it personally, bugger hasn’t aged a day since I was a kid, but it’s him.”

“This is all very well and good,” Crowley sighed, “but unfortunately, I did not come here to discuss_ Ezra Fell[6]_ and his lack of common sense when it comes to aging. I came here to find out what you might now about all these deaths, and how Harrison Olom is involved.”

“Olom? Dunno nothin’ ‘bout him, only met the man twice. Once when ‘e hired me, and then… then t’day,” Cartwright said, voice breaking a bit. “Y’got anymore o’ that gin there, Doc?”

“Now Richard, you’ve had quite enough,” Mossy responded, his voice much more gentle than it had been during the entire situation. “I know it’s been a terrible, terrible day, but – “

Crowley was less understanding. “Then why did your wife accuse the both of you of murder?”

“_I never killed no one!”_ Cartwright shouted, leaping unsteadily to his feet and nearly ending up on the ground. Mossy shot up next to him, steadying him and helping him back into a chair. “Mary is out of her damned head! We ‘ave no money as it is, and what with her being in the family way again, I just… Well, Mr Faire suggested our Henry come work in the mill, what with little Jack and Liam disappearin’ last week and all, was no one to work the furnace or clean out the machines – “

“_Who_ disappeared last week?” Crowley demanded, grabbing the front of the man’s shirt and pulling him upwards out of the chair, eyes blazing behind dark glasses. Mossy jerked forward with a noise of protest, but the terrible things he read in the demon’s expression kept him seated and quiet, eyes darting back and forth between the drunk and his captor.

“J-J-Jack and Liam Dawson!” the flailing man stuttered, trying to free himself from Crowley’s grip in vain. “They were just little lads, not much older than my Henry! Mr Faire brought them in from the boys’ workhouse after their mum died a few months back, gave ‘em a place to live with him up in the Rookery. Said he’d been close with their old dad, said it was his duty to watch out for ‘em. Liam was old enough to go to the docks with the rest of the men and work the furnaces there, but Jack and Henry was just wee ‘uns, they couldn’t… ‘e couldn’t…”

Cartwright cut off with a guttural cry and his head fell, hands covering his face as his chest heaved as he cried great, gasping sobs, muttering completely incomprehensibly. Crowley released his grip, letting the man slump to the floor in a boneless heap, weeping as he curled into himself and wept.

“Who is this Mr Faire?” Crowley asked, not expecting much of an answer.

“Louis Faire,” Dr Lawn unexpectedly supplied, kneeling at Cartwright’s side. “He’s the foreman down at the docks, though he manages the textile mill too. Anything Olom can’t, or I suppose _won’t_, do himself, Faire handles. People call him his right-hand man, and they say the two are nearly inseparable.”

“I didn’t see him this morning,” the demon commented, perhaps unnecessarily and not exactly expecting a reply.

“Oh, he was there,” Mossy retorted, his voice strange as he glanced through the doorway of the backroom, and out the front window. “You may not have seen him, but wherever Harrison Olom goes, Louis Faire is close behind. Mark my words – _he was there_."

* * *

The sun was nearly behind the horizon as Crowley exited Dr Lawn’s office and began his trek back to Mayfair. His head was spinning, and as he passed in front of Aziraphale’s bookstore, he paused just for a moment, across the street and into the business area of the shop. It was dark and empty, but one lone candle seemed to be burning from the backroom. Crowley hesitated even as his legs seemed to want to move of their own accord, eager to take him to the angel who, most likely, sat at that old writing desk, poring over the _Vedas_ text in raptured concentration.

He could go, he knew, he could walk over there right now, and drape his tired body across that bloody _chaise lounge_ that Aziraphale had admitted was his, entirely his in the angel’s mind, _bought for him because he’d been thinking of him_. He could find sanctuary in the bookshop, and perhaps something stronger than tea, and he could unload all the things he had learned that rattled around in his head, demanding attention, demanding action and solutions, and perhaps still his fingers that would be twitching even then, _especially then, _because they were _always_ twitching when Aziraphale was there, always _grasping_, _reaching _for the angel who was _always too far away and – _

No.

No, he had offered the Principality a reprieve from this, had told him to go and have a rest, and Crowley was the antithesis of the peace Aziraphale so desperately needed. He would not heal himself while wounding his already injured angel further; everything he had ever done was to keep Aziraphale safe and whole – even from himself.

_If my people hear I rescued an angel, I'll be the one in trouble. And my lot do not send rude notes._

Crowley allowed himself one more long look across the road, drinking in the sight of the bookshop, of warmth, of comfort.

Let Aziraphale have his peace. Tomorrow, they would have work to do. He tore his gaze away, forced his legs to do as they were told, not as they would like, and began the solitary trek that would take him down dark streets lined by empty businesses and tenements filled with people with emptier hearts.

<strike>And thus, Crowley went home.</strike>

And thus, Crowley went back to Mayfair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Crowley still loathed the gloomier of Shakespeare’s work, but had developed a rather soft spot for Hamlet in the end, primarily out of self-defense.[return to text]  
2This was partly due to the fact that neither woman had any sort of sense of volume control, as is standard in all Genteel Women of a Certain Age. [return to text]  
3In Crowley’s defense, people in Manchester couldn’t help but overhear, regardless of how hard they tried.[return to text]  
4This in and of itself was a testament to Crowley’s state of mind in the heat of the moment, and later, when he had time to reflect, he vowed to take this particular outburst to his grave, metaphorically speaking.[return to text]  
5Which had not stopped actually being Friday, regardless of Crowley’s refusal to pay attention to days of the week.[return to text]  
6A miracle and of itself[return to text]


	4. i'll follow your voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
_I haven't slept in so long _  
_When I do, I dream _  
_Of drowning in the ocean _  
_Longing for the shore _  
_Where I can lay my head down _  
_Inside these arms of yours _  
  
_All because of you _  
_I believe in angels _  
_Not the kind with wings _  
_No, not the kind with halos _  
_The kind that bring you home _  
_When home becomes a strange place _  
_I'll follow your voice _  
_All you have to do _  
_Is shout it out... _  
  
-"The Good Left Undone", Rise Against  


It was incredible, really, how someone could adamantly protest that they were an _ethereal being, Crowley, and as such do not _require _sleep,_ and in the very next instant, continue their uncanny, though unintentional, impression of a cranky toddler who has skipped several naps after refusing to sleep the night before.

Aziraphale was _not_ a morning person.

“I simply do not understand what you hope to accomplish by marching down to the docks at the crack of dawn, looking for this Mr Faire!” he grumbled, tugging at the sides of his jacket and brushing non-existent dust off of the front. It was the same complaint he had issued no less than three times in the past half hour, and while Crowley had studiously ignored the first few exclamations, his already frayed patience was about to tear apart completely.

“Careful with that suit, angel, you might rip a _seam_,” the demon snarked – it was his fourth barbed reference of the morning, and all of them so far had gone over Aziraphale’s head. No matter. The day was young. He had time.

Like Crowley, Aziraphale was a professional at ignoring his associate’s inane rambling, and paid him exactly no heed as he continued his irritated diatribe. “And just how are we supposed to find him? There will be thousands of people in the shipyard! Are we going to wander around that filthy place all day, hoping that the next person we randomly ask will happen to be him? You need a _plan_, Crowley!”

“_We_ will figure it out,” he snapped back, inching ever closer to the proverbial precipice where the last bit of his tolerance teetered, waiting to fling itself into the abyss at the very next comment that could be taken the wrong way. It seemed excited at the prospect. “Look Aziraphale, there have been three children killed in the span of a week. They were all burned, they all worked at the same place, and they all have connections to Louis Faire. He was the one who told Richard Cartwright to bring his son to the mill, and the child ends up burned to death not even seven days after two other boys, boys who _lived with Louis Faire_, turned up as charred corpses on the doorstep of _your_ bookstore. That doesn’t seem even a _little_ suspicious to you? “

“You do not know for _certain_ that those poor boys were the Dawson boys! You’re making assumptions based on the testimony of a grieving drunk who was barely coherent at the time! You can hardly depend on his memory to be accurate or reliable, and –”

“Oh, his memory was _accurate_ all right, sure as Hell remembered _you –”_

“I beg your _pardon_, but just what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Not very angelic of you, is it, frequenting brothels, a brothel in the _Shades_, of all bloody places –”

“_How in the world do you know about that?”_

“Well you’re not exactly _subtle_, are you? Prancing about, ‘Ooh, Mrs. Palm, I need measured for a new suit, shall I take my pants off right here in the front, or maybe a few of your finest girls could escort me to a room’ –”

“I – what – _that is not what happened!_” If Crowley’s patience had swan-dived off the cliff’s edge, then Aziraphale’s was right on its heels, making a rude hand gesture at it as it passed, and speeding towards oblivion with reckless abandon. It did not seem excited. It seemed feral. “If you _must_ know, I was originally sent there on assignment! One of the, the, the _seamstresses_ was having a terrible labour, and it was unlikely that she and the baby would both survive without divine intervention! The baby was supposed to be important to the Divine Plan, you know, but I’d never been in one of _those places_ before, and I _panicked_ and just blurted out the first thing that came into my head!” His face was flushed from a mixture of embarrassment and exertion and he stopped walking, turning to fully face Crowley as he ranted on, arms gesticulating and voice passionate in a way it only became when he was truly upset. “I wasn’t going to go back after that, after all, how would it look if, if _Gabriel_ decided to pop in at exactly the wrong moment, but they _needed me_, Crowley! No respectable doctor goes anywhere near places like that, at least not to offer medical intervention, and – I won’t apologise for saving people who would have otherwise died!”

There was silence as his words echoed and faded into nothingness. Crowley rather wished he could follow suit - his face felt like it was on fire, and had he been required to breathe as a rule and not an afterthought, he would have found himself quite incapable of it. Shame, guilt, elation at the revelation that Aziraphale had not, in fact, been frequenting a whorehouse for its intended purpose - it all crashed through him like the breaking of a dam, followed swiftly by an intense embarrassment at allowing himself to jump to that particular conclusion in the first place.

He wanted desperately to apologise. He could even form the sentence in his head, but it perished before it could reach his throat, a single phrase from Aziraphale’s heated denunciation holding the murder weapon – _how would it look if _Gabriel _decided to pop in at exactly the wrong moment_? Yes, how _would_ it look if the archangel, or Beelzebub, or any one of thousands of their _own kinds_ happened upon the pair even now as they stood face-to-face, barely a foot apart, close enough for Crowley to feel the warmth emanating from the corporation of his Enemy, his associate, blast it, his _friend _and suddenly his face was on fire for a different reason, the inferno raging in his chest spreading to his cheeks, his toes, his fingers, and –

“Angel,” he murmured lowly, longing to reach out and bridge the gap between the two of them, to draw Aziraphale towards him in an embrace, or to throttle him, or perhaps both, to do _something_ other than just stand there, staring at him like he was the only thing in the world – _but wasn’t he_? And damn it all if the principality wasn’t mirroring his exact expression, blue eyes blazing with an intensity matching the firestorm threatening to turn his entire body into a pyre, and for a glorious, single second, Crowley contemplating throwing caution, and decorum, and every other fearful thing to the wind and just _surrendering to it, _but - 

But how would it look if Gabriel decided to pop in, at exactly the wrong moment?

And so Crowley stepped back, hands clenched into fists at his sides as though he could physically restrain the emotions that were coursing through his proverbial veins, hotter than hellfire itself and a thousand times more painful. His very presence here, next to Aziraphale, breathing his same air, put the both of them at risk. Better to keep the distance, keep up the pretence, than jeopardize the very thing he had worked so hard to protect. He would not push, so long as it meant there could be no fall.

“That’s all I’m asking for here,” he eventually finished, his voice hoarse. “Whatever’s happening, it’s already killed three people, three _kids_, Aziraphale. I just want to save the rest of them who might otherwise die.”

Aziraphale gave him a long look, his eyes no less intense than they had been a moment ago, before his eyes softened, something akin to realisation in their depths, and his face regained its usual, casually optimistic appearance. “Why, my dear,” he quipped in an almost sprightly tone, all traces of tension completely vanished, “I’ve always said that deep down, you really are quite ki –”

“Oh, _don’t_,” the demon groaned, throwing his head back dramatically and slapping a hand to his forehead in exaggerated exasperation as the pair resumed their pace towards the dock. “It’s not about _that_, angel, it’s simple common sense – don’t want people turning to _prayer_ out of fear, creates extra work…”

* * *

The docks _were_ filthy, as it happened, and that was only their third worst quality. The terrible smell that hit Crowley’s nose like a sledgehammer took the number two spot with a stench that resembled dead fish in the way that a tornado might be called a slight breeze – it was a vast underrepresentation, and a person might just die from it.

It was completely tolerable, when compared to the noise.

The sounds of voices, shouts, barked orders, casual conversations, and of course, the occasional fight breaking out between labourers all joined together to create a deafening roar, punctuated by the sounds of hammers, saws, and various other machinery used to build and repair the ships that lined the yard. Large crowds of men congregated near the foremen that called out the names of those chosen to work that day, while the rest were sent home empty-handed and desolate. The racket bounced around in Crowley’s already crowded head, disorienting him momentarily and causing him to sway. His fingers twitched.

“Right,” he spoke, stepping just a bit closer to the angel so that he could be heard over the commotion, “let’s get this over with.”

Three quarters of an hour later, the occult pair had trudged their way through the crowds, located one of the shipyard supervisors, spent a good chunk of time arguing and shouting to be understood and eventually obeyed, and learned that Louis Faire, in fact, was _not_ in fact at the docks today, but had been spending increasing amounts of time at the textile factory, the very one that Aziraphale and Crowley had passed on their trek to the edge of the Thames nearly an hour previous. They would have to backtrack, and if the increasingly irate glances the angel kept shooting in his direction when he thought his red-headed companion wasn’t  looking[1] were any indication, Aziraphale was even less pleased at this development than he had been when Crowley showed up in his bookstore at dawn’s first light, without breakfast even, demanding that they begin this endeavour in the first place.

“All right, all right,” the demon huffed in resignation as he snapped his fingers, the sound of horse hooves suddenly approaching at rapid speeds, “we’ll take a bloody carriage this time.” The blue eyes did not even so much as flicker towards him, and his golden ones answered with a pointed roll. “Oh yes, fine, _and_ we’ll make a quick stop at that café down the street for lunch.”

The angel’s smile was radiant as Crowley held the carriage door open for him, and though he would rather discorporate himself than allow Aziraphale to see it, a small grin stretched its way across his lips in response as he stepped in behind him, settling in to the rather comfortable seats and looking anywhere but at his travelling companion as the carriage pulled away from the docks and back into the world they knew.

* * *

They were in a better mood by the time they finished  lunch,[2] though it was short-lived. Though the factory itself was not nearly as abhorrent as the dockyards were, the heat was unbearable even in the frigid November air. The cotton dust filled the air in thick clouds, worse than the choking haze of the smog that smothered the city without a hint of mercy. Machines were spread out, and though a few older girls could be spotted here and there, the majority were operated by children too young to be one simple distraction or mistake away from the loss of life, limb, or perhaps both. Crowley felt horror creeping from his stomach up into his throat, temporarily rendering him mute; beside him, Aziraphale’s expression mirrored his turmoil. He wanted to say something comforting, or snide, or anything, really, to turn that look of shocked sorrow into impatience, or amusement, or even (especially?) fond gratitude. Anything but the pain and despondency that radiated from every being in the room, himself included. He opened his mouth to speak – what words he’d say, he wasn’t sure, but perhaps the right ones would simply fall out for once, and –

“Gentlemen.”

A single word broke him from his inner reverie, catching him unaware and eliciting the smallest jump in his hands, though his legs, by this point, were too terrified to move of their own  accord.[3]_Pathetic,_ he sneered at himself, irritated at being caught off-guard for even a second.

“Is there something I can help you with?” It was not a friendly voice, and had the face to match – doughy skin that had seen too many weight fluctuations, starved by failure then gorging success, seemed too tightly drawn over stark cheekbones, only to sag from them like the jowls of a bulldog. Pale blue eyes that once must have been large and entrancing were now sunken deeply into their sockets, giving them a bulbous and bulging expression. He was tall, though his shoulders hunched forward to give the impression of smallness, and bowl-legged. He was the very picture of tragedy – no matter where one looked, there was a suggestion of beauty, ruined by the living of a lifetime to survive, with no hope of anything more.

It was hardly a wonder that the stench of hellish despair, and hellish rage, and really, just _Hell_ was rolling off him in waves, threatening to choke Crowley in the same way the pollution and cotton dust and disease of the world choked all these children around him. It was rare that a human was so irrevocably damned that they already smelled of the Pit, and his very presence was anathematic to the demon. He didn’t know how Aziraphale could bear it so passively – his expression had not flickered even slightly, not even to send Crowley a look of covert[4] alarm. _What was he playing at?_

“Oh, yes, quite!” the angel responded in a genuinely friendly voice, causing Crowley’s eyes to narrow behind his shades. “We were rather hoping to speak to Mr. F – “

“Mr. Olom,” Crowley interjected, fighting the urge to pinch the angel at his side as his bright azure eyes widened noticeably. Not a subtle bloody bone in his body, and here was living proof, so how was he so unfazed by the hell stink pouring from this rotting jack-o’-lantern of a man? “We understand that he is the owner of this factory, and we have urgent business with him.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Olom is departed for the Americas, as of this morning,” the man answered flatly. “My name is Louis Faire, and I oversee this factory in his absence. Perhaps I may be of assistance, Mr…?”

“Crowley,” he supplied, seeing no reason to lie, and pointedly ignoring Aziraphale’s huff of protest, who apparently did. “I’ve been sent by the magistrate to inspect this factory, make sure everything is up to standards, and the like.”

“And he is?”

The demon tried magnificently to keep from grinding his teeth, and mostly succeeded. ”_He_ is a duly appointed superintendent, who will be assisting me in the inspection.”

“Does he have a name?”

“You know, it never occurred to me to ask.” Crowley’s voice was final, allowing no room to push the line of inquiry any further. On a gamble, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper that had not been there a second prior and handed it to Mr Faire. “I think you’ll see that our affairs are all in order.”

Faire took the paper grudgingly, and glanced down at it for no more than half a second. “What’s this, then?”

“The edict from the magistrate himself, granting us the authority to inspect the facility with no prior notice, make note of our findings, and report said findings directly back to said magistrate,” Crowley explained quite slowly, his voice a perfect imitation of every other bureaucrat in the world who was tasked with interacting with inferiors. ‘Condescending’ did not even begin to cover it.

“Mm. I’ll take your word for it, then,” the overseer grumbled, crumpling the paper in his hands and dropping it to the ground. In a stunning display of an outraged submissive on behalf of his superior, Aziraphale bent down and reclaimed the decree, making quite the show out of smoothing the wrinkles and wiping off the dirt. “Gimme just a second and I’ll let you have a look around.”

As Louis Faire trudged away to bark orders at some cringing children at the far end of the room, Aziraphale unfolded the note in his hand, and sighed. “Crowley.”

“Hm? What is it, angel?”

“This just says, ‘I can do what I want,’ in four different languages.”

“Does it? Huh. Could’ve sworn it was an official bestowal of authority from the local magistrate upon our persons. Lucky for me that he doesn’t seem to be able to read, I suppose.”

“Oh, my dear…”

* * *

When He-Who-Would-Be-Crowley Fell, he had landed on the shores of the Lake of Fire, mostly unconscious and in intolerable pain. Everything inside of him burned, but as he pulled himself from the tides of molten rock and up onto fully solid ground, the air was frigid agony to his charred form. The stench of sulphur scorched him just as deeply as any open flame, and the cries and weeping of his fallen brethren shattered through his mind like a sledgehammer. Every moment, he froze to death while the hellfire in his veins burned him alive, a grotesque dichotomy of a killing cure. Eventually, scales formed over his seared flesh, offering scant protection and the beginnings of a form, and so he began to slither, to crawl, forward. It was his first act of true Rebellion – refusing to lie down and die, as he had considered so many times and would consider even more in the days to come, when the ground cut through his soft underbelly like knives and there seemed to be no point in going on. 

Crowley had seen Hell, in all its eternal torments, and sufferings, and how it _changed_ its denizens, warping them beyond recognition as they gave in to the madness around them, embracing the darkness that absorbed them. The Fall stole bits and pieces from all of them, leaving only scattered remnants of the angels they were before their wings turned to bleeding smoke and shadows. There were no advocates for humanity left, no outraged questions or protests – there was only resentment, suspicion, bitterness. There was hatred, and an unquenchable thirst for revenge upon a people that did not even truly exist yet, because there could be no vengeance upon the One who, in their eyes, truly deserved it. The whole spectacle disgusted Crowley down to the very core of his essence.

He had seen Hell, and while this factory was not, of course, the actual fiery, freezing Pit that had been his dungeon cell for Time Immemorial, it was quite possibly the closest he had come upon this  godforsaken[5] planet. He had seen wars, and genocides, and countless cruelties that these clever humans had devised for each other more creatively and unashamedly than his cursed brethren could ever manage, but _this_…

Children as young as five cleaned still-running machines with tiny hands in constant danger of being caught and snapped entirely off, their eyes red from the dirt and cotton dust and long, arduous hours they were forced to endure. Most resembled skeletons, and their already ill-fitting clothing hung off their frames in baggy piles, increasing their danger as the cold steel fingers of the looms and throstles grabbed at them, pulling them in, in, in. Some were missing fingers. A few little ones here and there seemed to have been crying, but the majority of them merely sat there, staring at the tasks in front of them from eyes that seemed to see nothing, that had seen too much.

It was the sheer hopelessness of the whole thing that caused the creeping panic at the back of Crowley’s throat that tasted like bile and _sulphur, burning sulphur, burning him_, and for a moment, he was blind again, crawling on the banks of the Lake, praying for it all to end all the while refusing to let it. He might have remained there indefinitely, eyes wide behind dark spectacles and unnecessarily breathing shallow breaths of boiling air, had it not been for the cool but not freezing hand that briefly touched his, grounding him, bringing him back to himself.

Mercifully, the angel did not speak aloud, though the concerned expression written blatantly across his face conveyed his feelings quite adequately. Crowley swallowed hard, yanked his arm uncharitably out of reach, and cleared his throat. “Come on then, we still need to see to the boiler room,” he declared harshly, refusing to meet Aziraphale’s gaze.

For his part, the angel did not seem to take any offense to his colleague’s brusque demeanour. He merely nodded in silent assent and, after a quick glance around to make sure that they were still alone in their endeavours, began their descent down the poorly-lit, narrow stairway that led to the basement-level room where the furnaces were kept. The heat was overwhelming and blasted Crowley squarely in the face, momentarily taking his breath away and causing his eyes to water.

The room, with its several boilers that kept the air up above at the sweltering, humid temperatures that melted and drowned one’s lungs, or so it seemed, was completely devoid of human life, which seemed... _wrong_. Where were the men at work, stoking the fires, checking the pressure of the steam, and keeping the entire factory from going up in a broiling deluge? And _why_, for the bloody love of Whomever, Wherever, _were his fingers twitching?_

“My dear, whatever is the matter?” Aziraphale’s whisper broke the bubbling silence of the room, but Crowley barely heard him. He was dimly aware that the angel was still speaking, or murmuring, or otherwise making noise in his general direction, but he was beyond the point of comprehension. Every single inch of his true being was desperately trying to claw its way out of his corporation’s skin in an attempt to make a run for it, and only the sheer force of Crowley’s stubborn demonic will wrestled the hellfire and brimstone back into place, so to speak. He felt claustrophobic, he was _suffocating_. _What the _Hell_ was going on? _Crowley ripped his shades from his face in a last-ditch effort to obtain even metaphorical breathing room, hardly registering Aziraphale’s gasp as he did so. “_Crowley,_” the angel almost whimpered, “your _eyes_…”

They were almost completely yellow sclera at this point, the slit iris barely visible to the casual observer. They bulged out of his corporation in a truly terrifying manner, one that Aziraphale had certainly never seen  before,[6] and darted to-and-fro restlessly in their sockets as though searching in vain for a hidden enemy. The angel took a step towards him, hand outstretched once more in hopes of bringing him back…

And Crowley _struck_.

It was not dangerous, not truly, but it startled Aziraphale badly as he felt the demon’s finger’s curl around the top of his wrist, and the unease grew as the infernally jaundiced gaze met his, wild with dread. It was not fear for himself that filled him, but the rising realisation that something was terribly wrong that flooded his chest with anxiety. He needed Crowley return to himself, to snap out of it – he was so horribly out of his league, and while he had ridden with the Hosts of Heaven against the banners of the Damned, been the Guardian of Eden’s Eastern Gate for a reason, there was no flaming sword here, no tangible enemies to vanquish. There was only Aziraphale, who had nearly gotten discorporated for his love of crepes and bad timing, and he had not been anyone’s rescuer or protector in millennia. He was not sure he remembered how to be.

Tearing his gaze from that of the demon’s for just a split second, to ensure that they were still quite alone, Aziraphale rolled his wrist in a fluid movement to twist under the demon’s grip, clasping his own fingers along the underside of Crowley’s forearm and returning the hold. There was strength in his grasp, though no pain or aggression to it – it was steady and reassuring, an anchor, not a shackle, and the weight seemed to stay the oncoming storm, if only momentarily.

Turmoil clung to Crowley like a second skin, and the agitation tearing around inside him transferred to Aziraphale greedily, ravenous for a feast of terror and horror in this new host as it spread throughout his ethereal veins, seeking to sap his strength, his will power, to drain him dry and utterly destroy him. _It was hungry_.

On instinct, gossamer wings unfurled from between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades, lighting the room around them with a pure, shining glow. They drew around the pair like a shield, driving away the shadows and dank air, a muted beacon in the darkness to lead the way Back. Even as the raging fear seemed to fight back against them, the angel could feel Crowley’s grip slacken, saw his eyes recede into his face ever-so-slightly; he was almost there.

“Asssiraphale...?” It was barely a hiss, though the elongated sound was still there; Aziraphale tightened his hold. If he was Crowley’s tether, he would not be derelict in his duty - he would not let go until he was sure that his demon was on solid ground again. “A bit bloody _bright_, isssn’t it? Why the hell are your wingsss out?”

He couldn’t help it – Aziraphale let out a bark of slightly hysterical laughter as he relaxed his grip, then released it entirely. “Oh, my dear, are you quite alright?” He queried, his wings disappearing from sight as he felt the tension drain from him. “What _happened?”_

But Crowley was shaking his head, eyes still retaining a bit of the frantic gaze that had overpowered them only seconds before. “I don’t – I don’t know,” he managed, his voice both utterly destroyed and forbidding all at once. “It felt like – it felt like…” The words trailed off, and he simply shook his head again, clearing his throat and turning his gaze away from the overwhelming distress etched across Aziraphale’s face. “I don’t know what it was,” he tried again after a moment, this time stronger and more stable, “but it came from behind that door.”

As a compass drawn to true north, gazes of topaz and sapphire shifted to look at the unobtrusive wooden fixture that hung on the southern wall. It stared back innocuously, the picture of passive innocence. Aziraphale hesitated – truly, he felt nothing emanating from the door or the room behind it, had felt nothing the entire time apart from muted horror and sympathy for the children in the factory and the lives to which they’d been condemned. It was tragic, and reprehensible, and it sickened him down to the very bones in his corporation, but it was also so very – well – _human_.

On the other hand…

Crowley was known for being quite dramatic, of course, it was simply a part of the demon’s being, no different from his serpentine eyes and tendency to hiss under duress. He was larger than life and lived every second of it to exaggeration and excess – he loved the flair, the flamboyance, but only ever to entertain. When it came to weakness, or what he would perceive as weakness, Crowley became nearly feral in his protestations that he was infallible, untouchable, invincible. Where Aziraphale was frightened and timid, Crowley was brash and fearless, always ready to step squarely into the fray, to stand up when Aziraphale was quite content to sit back. He may have been a demon, sworn to temptation and discord, but he was not a liar. Not in all the long history of their time together, and not now.

This time, Aziraphale could lead the charge. This time, he could be the one.

Drawing himself up to his full height, the angel strode across the room, Crowley close behind him, and threw open the door with more force than was strictly required. It submitted with a strident _bang_, the reverberations echoing around the small room to which it yielded entry, and Aziraphale continued onwards without a second thought.

The chamber, it appeared, was mostly empty, and mainly furnace. Large, looming, one unlike the world of the 19th century had seen until now. The enormous, iron furnace hold was built back into the wall, and somehow still managed to assume half the room. Unlike other furnaces, there was no grate, or door, or anything to keep the blistering inferno contained – only the opening where the barrier had been removed from its hinges, wide enough for a grown man to easily stand in, looking for all the world like the doorway to hell. In front of it, perhaps to the surprise of no one, stood one Louis Faire, a dark silhouette against the flickering blaze. He startled as the door flew open, turning away from the furnace to face and stare at the intruders. His pale eyes seemed to have lost all colour, the reflections of the flames dancing across them like unholy irises; from behind, those same flames set his lanky flaxen hair dimly a-glow, a tarnished, limp halo that had lost all memories of holiness across untold millennia.

Aziraphale saw none of this. He was frozen in place, nearly causing a collision as Crowley barely managed to side-step his rigid form, coming to stand at his side. The demon followed the angel’s horrified gaze, through the room, past the ember-lit figure of the man who seemed Hell incarnate, and directly into the flaming pyre where one could just barely make out the tiny, flailing form of a small girl, writhing inside its scorching chamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Although, as anyone with eyes of their own could see, Crowley was never not looking.[return to text]  
2 Rather, Aziraphale finished what turned out to be a three course meal, while Crowley watched him and pretended to nurse a cup of coffee. [return to text]  
3 They daren’t go against Crowley again, not after the verbal lashing they received the night before regarding The Bookshop Incident.[return to text]  
4 By Aziraphale’s standards, anyway, which in this area were woefully misguided. [return to text]  
5 At least, for the most part.[return to text]  
6 The Flood had come close, though Aziraphale did not like to think of that time very often; the gnawing feeling of guilt and shame twisted his stomach in a way that felt dangerously close to condemning Her, and it frightened him. [return to text]


End file.
